


in another life (if this one wasn't enough)

by thisismydesignn



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Kissing, M/M, Pseudo-Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 16:24:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4632021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisismydesignn/pseuds/thisismydesignn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What kind of man loves like this?</p>
            </blockquote>





	in another life (if this one wasn't enough)

**Author's Note:**

> A different take on a few scenes from this week's episode (eps1.8_m1rr0r1ng.qt) - **very spoilery**.
> 
> Written kiiind of stream-of-consciousness style, so it's a mess of italics and unfinished sentences and sort of all over the place. Hopefully not _too_ much of a mess.
> 
> Credit for the title and summary goes to Florence + The Machine.

“I will never leave you alone again,” Mr. Robot says, desperate, and then they’re kissing, his mouth hard and hungry against Elliot’s like he can’t get close enough, like he’d rather die than let himself be dragged away, and that—  
  
Oh.

 _Oh_.  


* * *

_You knew all along, didn’t you?_ and of course they did— he can practically hear it, the laughter, _crazy Elliot, Mr. Robot_ , and maybe it’s tinged with pity but it doesn’t matter, doesn’t change the fact that he’s dead and gone (still, again) and all that’s left are shattered fragments of him in Elliot’s mind.

But that kiss—

 _I wanted that,_ he thinks; thinks about kissing Darlene— he wanted that too, or at least he thought he did, and— Christ, how many levels of fucked up can one person be? But she had pushed him away, and Mr. Robot— _dad_ — no— Mr. Robot, he’ll always be Mr. Robot— had pulled him closer, said _I will never leave you_ , and—

And there he is, leaning against the table like he’s been there all along ( _he has, you idiot, you crazy motherfucker_ ) and Elliot doesn’t know where to look, what to say, whispers _help_ to his imaginary friend and hears only static in return.

“Listen, kiddo,” and Elliot shuts his eyes, sinks back into the couch, feels his cheeks burn as Mr. Robot crosses the room to kneel in front of him. “Look at me,” Mr. Robot says, soft, like he’s trying not to spook him; Elliot shakes his head, has done enough looking, too much, without _seeing_. “ _Look_ at me,” and this time it’s more forceful, something in his tone that Elliot can’t help but want to obey, even after all this time. He feels sick. He opens his eyes.

Mr. Robot is looking up at him, eyes wide through thick-rimmed glasses, hands heavy on Elliot’s knees. “I know this is—” _exactly how many synonyms for crazy are there?_ “—but we need each other, you and I.” _Because without me you’re rotting away beneath the ground_ , Elliot thinks but doesn’t say, _and I’m— I’m—_

“It’s not wrong to want this,” Mr. Robot says, and kisses him again, and Elliot pulls away but he can’t get far enough. “It’s not wrong because it’s not _real_ , it’s not anything— I shouldn’t miss you like this, why couldn’t you stay dead?” and then Mr. Robot is above him, hands on his face as he crushes his mouth to Elliot’s and Elliot clings to him, shoves off that goddamn baseball cap and tries to get closer, closer.

He moans at the burn of Mr. Robot’s stubble, lips parting under his; feels his knees on either side of his hips and arches up, fingers slipping from Mr. Robot’s neck to the small of his back and the chorus of _what’s happening, what’s happening, what’s happening_ is, impossibly, silent.

Mr. Robot gets him on his back, presses him into the pillows and keeps kissing him, one hand fumbling at the zip of Elliot’s jeans. He’s talking to him between kisses and it’s only then that Elliot realizes he’s shaking like a leaf as Mr. Robot murmurs, “It’s okay, it’s okay, I’ve got you,” _I will never leave you_ , fingers trembling too much to be of any use, to do anything but hold on.

There’s a knock at the door.

_No, no, no, no, no—_

And Elliot’s alone again, still shaking, jeans undone and colder than he’s ever been in his life.

“Who is it?” he calls; his voice cracks and he tries again, receives no answer but another series of knocks, quick, insistent.

He pulls himself up, remembering to button, zip his jeans even if he can’t quite remember how to breathe, resting a hand on the doorknob a moment too long before he pulls it open.

It’s Tyrell, _bonsoir_ Tyrell Wellick who always, _always_ manages to catch him off guard. He pushes his way inside before Elliot can react, says, “I didn’t want anyone to know I’m here,” and then he stops, looks around at Elliot and Tyrell— well, Tyrell _sees_.

“Did I…interrupt?” and he’s watching Elliot like he wants to look away, glance around the apartment for _who_ , but he can’t get past the sheen of sweat on Elliot’s skin, the bulge in his jeans. “No,” Elliot says, but it sounds like a lie even to his ears. Tyrell nods, slow; licks his lips and once more all Elliot can do is _look_ , look away.  


* * *

He takes Tyrell to the arcade. He tells him— not everything, but enough, and _now it’s you and me,_ and Elliot still can’t stop looking. He pins Tyrell against the nearest machine and kisses him; doesn’t _ask_ , thinks of Shayla, kisses Tyrell harder, feels him respond in kind.

It’s not— _is this what I want?_ — he doesn’t know, doesn’t know how to know, but this is _real,_ and that’s more than he can say about ( _Mr. Robot’s lips on his, body heavy, hands everywhere_ ), well, pretty much anything else. This is a man who could, who might, kill him as quick as kiss him, lips like morphine ( _so tremendous, so simple_ ) and right now all Elliot needs is to stop— thinking—

( _I am fear. I am flight. He is absolute power, and_ he— _promises, promises and half-remembered eyes—_ _will always be right here._ )


End file.
